Lu

by Jason Reynolds

  Mom set her knife on the table and came over to me. Leaned against the counter just like Dad did when he first told me about being named Goose. “Last night your dad got to bed late. He told me what he told you.” I chewed on the side of my jaw and questioned if my timing on the smile was off. Was I a second too long? I ain’t say nothing. Just spooned cereal, but before I could get it to my mouth, she touched my wrist, lowered my hand. “Lu. I know you’re disappointed in him. But he’s got . . . stuff. That stutter he told you about? Well, that was kinda like him being a lightning bolt. There’s not always a known reason why a kid has a stuttering issue, so imagine if you’re the one in your class who struggles. Who’s teased.”

  “I ain’t gotta imagine that.” I was fighting against my attitude face but could feel my eyebrows dipping into the disrespectful zone.

  “I know you don’t. Sorry, I know. But think about how you started running and got confident. Well, what if you didn’t? What if you weren’t as good as you are? Or what if no one was there to tell you you were good? When I met him, your dad was a street dude. At least that’s what everybody said. But after I started talking to him, I realized he was more than what people thought about him. He was more than his stutter. More than Goose. And that’s why we worked.”

  “I understand all that, Mom. Seriously. But what that got to do with him basically stealing a gold medal?”

  She nodded, rested her arms gently on her little belly bump, and sighed. “Nothing. He’s wrong. All I’m saying is, he’s human too. And sometimes the jokes cut deep. Deeper than we think. And if we don’t deal with them, if we don’t figure out how to somehow get over them, move past them, we have no idea what they can do to us.”

  I stayed silent. Just picked my spoon back up and ate.

  Today’s delivery was way on the other side of town, out by Sunny’s house. Actually a little past there, in a neighborhood I never even heard of, probably because it didn’t really feel like a neighborhood at all. This area was filled with nothing but steel-and-glass buildings, warehouses, almost no people. It was like the world was over, and the only thing left were parking lots full of navy-blue Camrys.

  We listened to Mary J. Blige the whole journey, my mother singing her heart out louder than anyone should ever sing anything, and she only turned it down once we pulled into one of the big, almost-empty lots.

  “I think this is the place,” she said, checking her paper, then craning her neck to see the number on the building: 300. “You got this, runner?” And as usual, with the shield on my lap, I opened the door. “You’re going in there, and down to suite 106. The company is called Sword and Stone.”

  “Got it.”

  I got out the car, hit the building’s buzzer, and a security guard let me in. I signed my name on the sign-in sheet, which always makes me feel like a grown-up on official business, because it basically means my name means something. Where it says signature, I like to just write a squiggly line and pretend it says Lucas Richardson, like everybody else do. “Signature” basically means sloppy name.

  “Suite 106, right down the hall.” The man behind the desk, who had been, I think, watching a movie on his phone, pointed. When I got down the hall, carrying the plastic case—ribboned and stickered, as usual—and made it to the big metal door marked 106, I knocked. Softly.

  No answer.

  Knock knock, again. A little harder, trying to balance the plastic case on one hand so that I didn’t drop it and have to explain that this was a shield that looks a little like a heart somebody was trying to give you, but the door was locked and I couldn’t knock and hold the case at the same time. Thankfully, none of this happened, and instead I could hear somebody coming. Could hear the doorknob jiggling.

  The door cracked, and music came blaring out. Rock music. The screamy stuff that makes me want to say Use your words, like my mother. A lady dressed in filthy overalls peeked out. There was a big metal mask covering her face, and if it wasn’t for her voice, I wouldn’t have known if she was a man or woman. She was holding one of those fire-gun things. The ones that make torches. Not what I was expecting in a building with a security guard and a sign-in sheet, but whatever. “May I help you?” she yelled.

  “Um . . .” I tried to figure out the best way to begin, over the loud banging and screeching guitars.

  “Hold on!” the lady said, noticing that I was holding something. She stepped away from the door, turned the music down, then came back, her mask now flipped up. “Hey. Sorry about that. You the fruit people?”

  “Yeah. Uh, good afternoon. My name is Lucas, and I have a package here for—”

  “Marina Gonzales. That’s me,” she said.

  “You ordered it?”

  “Yep. For myself. Well, for the whole workshop, but mainly for myself.” She pulled the door open all the way. “Come on in.”

  I walked into what seemed like some kind of dungeon, even though it was just suite 106. It smelled like burnt toast. And it looked like Marina Gonzales and the other people who were there—two guys hammering a piece of metal—hated the place. Like they were trying to scrape it up or burn it down.

  Marina Gonzales set the big fire-gun down, then took the plastic case from my hands. She set it on a table right by the door, took the cover off, and smiled.

  “The shield.” She nodded, satisfied. She pinched a piece of fruit from it. “Nice.”

  I looked around. Swords leaned against the wall in the corner. Like, real swords. Helmets and big pieces of metal stacked up like giant plates.

  “What is this place?” I asked, feeling like I was in some kind of movie. Like dragons were gonna come bust in on us any second.

  “This is Sword and Stone,” Marina Gonzales said, telling me what I already knew. “We make anything a knight would need.”

  “A night, like nighttime?”

  “No, a knight. Like Sir Lancelot.”

  “Like who?”

  “King Arthur?”

  “Ah. I know that one.”

  “So then you understand our name.”

  “Not really.”

  Marina laughed. “The story of the sword in the stone. Short version: There was a sword stuck in a stone, and only if you were the destined king could you remove it. Only the person to carry on the tradition of the kingdom would be able to pull the sword from the stone. King Arthur was the guy.”

  I nodded. “But . . .”

  “What do we do here, right? Well, we make swords, and helmets, and lances, and all kinds of cool stuff like that. Armor.” Marina pointed to the fruit. “Shields.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Um . . . because it’s awesome,” she said. “I mean, there are all kinds of people who collect this stuff, and a bunch of fairs that use it. Even knight-themed restaurants. But mainly because it’s awesome, and . . . tradition.”

  I nodded again, totally confused, because I ain’t never seen nobody just walking around with armor on, or a shield. Like, it would be wild to see Ms. Clark outside holding a sword. Bet wouldn’t nobody mess with her limestones then. But that wasn’t happening. But I nodded anyway. And all of a sudden, one of the guys who was hammering in the back walked up, pulled a metal spike out his pocket, and stabbed a piece of cantaloupe.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” Then I looked at Marina Gonzalez with a tight-lipped smile. “I . . . I gotta go.”

  When I got back outside, my mother had her door open, and at first I thought she was on her way in to get me, which might’ve led to an even weirder moment, but then I realized she wasn’t. Not at all. She was leaning out of the car, puking. It was gross. And on the way home—while I told her about the dragon slayers we’d just dropped a shield off to, and her telling me over and over again that I smell like I’ve been hanging out inside a barbecue grill—she had to pull over so that she could throw up again. She kept saying she was okay, and that it’s just part of having a baby, and that it was way worse with me.

  “Thanks.”

 
“Hey, sweetheart, giving birth to lightning don’t come easy.” She grinned and groaned at the same time.

  “Need me to drive?” I asked. Mom’s face looked like what brown would look like if brown could be green. But she still started laughing, only because she ain’t know there was this one time Dad let me drive. Not far, and only for a little bit. Down the block. So I knew I could get us home if she needed me to.

  “No.” She swallowed a burp, frowned. “I think . . . I got it.”

  The rest of the day was pretty much the same thing. Puke fest. When we got back to the house, my mother basically locked herself in the bathroom and . . . yeah . . . it was rough. Worse than what it usually was. She cracked the door for a moment and told me to call Dad and remind him that he really needed to take me to practice. But there was no need to call him, because he walked in the house a few minutes later.

  “She okay?” Dad tossed his keys on the table. I was standing in the hallway, listening through the door. Listening to my mom chuck whatever was left in her, out of her, into the toilet. I knotted my face. He came to the bathroom door. Tried to open it, but it was locked.

  “Chrissy, you all right?” Now I knew where I got my questioning skills from. Patty’s always getting on me about this. It’s like, Dude, you don’t hear her in there?

  “No, Gordon. I’m not all right.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t . . . I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Our . . . little girl is giving me the blues today. But I’ll be okay. Just make sure Lu gets to practice, please.”

  “I know, I already planned to take—” Puke sound. Oof. Dad turned to me. His face squished up, just like mine. “All day?” he asked me.

  “All day,” I replied.

  “Wow. Okay, go get ready for practice,” he said, heading toward the kitchen.

  In my room, I went through my usual routine. How I get my head right for battle. First stared in the mirror. White. My hair a yellowish brown. Squeezed the sunscreen out of the bottle and started rubbing it all over me, still looking, repeating my mantra. I am the man. The guy. The kid. The one. The only. The Lu. Lucky Lu. Lookie Lu. Lu the Lightning Bolt. I am the man. The guy. The kid . . . over and over again, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing, staring at myself. Searching for a crack.

  You look like a cotton ball dipped in white paint.

  The man.

  Like milk. Like somebody supposed to pour you over cereal.

  The guy.

  Like grits with no butter.

  The kid.

  Like sugar.

  The Lu. Lucky Lu.

  “Lu, you almost ready?” My dad’s voice came through the door, snapping me out of it. I quickly slipped on my tight practice jersey. Got my bag, threw my track shoes in it and an extra pair of contacts. I grabbed the gold chains off my desk, one by one, slipping them over my head, the metal cold on my neck. After chain number three, I reached for my earring, the lonely diamond. I took another look in the mirror, positioned my fingers to push the pin through my ear hole, and stopped. Stared at me again.

  And it hit me. I always say my mantra as a way to get gassed up, get me ready to go face whatever. Practice. Races. Kelvins. I always said it’s how I get ready for battle, which means, maybe . . . maybe it was kinda like my version of armor. Not like big and clunky, or a shield that looked like a heart or nothing like that. It wasn’t gray and sharp. Maybe for me, my kind of armor was made out of gold and diamonds. Made out of fly. Maybe it was passed down to me by my dad to somehow protect me from what got him. From the wolves. Like, what if I pulled the sword out the stone to carry on the tradition, right? And it came out because I am the man, the guy, the kid, the Lu, Lucky Lu? But what if I don’t want the sword? Or the stone? Does that mean I don’t get to be King Arthur, and just gotta settle for . . . Arthur? But, but but but what if I’m Arthur the Lightning Bolt? What he need armor for anyway? He a lightning bolt! Whatever. I’m . . . whatever.

  I ain’t know what I was really trying to say (to me in the mirror, or to you right now) and I definitely didn’t know what them weird people were talking about in that place. Suite 106. And for real for real, I was tripping, but only because for some reason—for some reason—I knew I had to put the diamond back down on the dresser. And, one by one, I took every chain back off.

  In the hallway, my father was back at the bathroom door, waiting for my mother to crack it so he could give her a cup of hot tea.

  “Ready?” he asked me again.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, give me a second.”

  “Have a good practice, Lu,” my mother eeked through the door. Her voice sounded empty. Tired. She grabbed the tea, and my dad jetted down to the end of the hallway, to their room. A few seconds later he came charging back down the hall, stopping at the bathroom again to tell my mother he was taking her car, then meeting me in the living room by the front door.

  In his hand was something I’d never seen.

  At least not in real life.

  Something I’d only dreamed about. A gold medal.

  “Here it is,” Dad said, handing it to me.

  It was heavy. Cold. Gold. In perfect condition. Not a mark or a tear, or a loose thread on the ribbon. Not a scrape or a scratch on the medal. It was—and I don’t never use this word—beautiful.

  “Took good care of it,” I said.

  “Yeah,” my father replied, opening the door, the light from outside pouring life into the living room. “But now it’s time to put it back where it belongs.”

  I held it the whole way. I held it like it was mine. Like it was something I could have one day, and I couldn’t help but think about what Coach had to go through to get it, and what it must have felt like to have it snatched away. I held it like it was a person. Like it was my little sister. Like it was a heart. My dad and I ain’t talk. He just drove. And I just held it. Staring at it. Trying to see myself in that shine.

  When we pulled up to the park, pulled into the parking lot, my father killed the engine. And froze.

  “Can I get a minute?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.

  “Coach right there.” I pointed onto the track, where Coach was talking to Chris.

  “I know. But I just . . .”

  I hesitated. Ask? Don’t ask? I asked. “You scared to talk to him?”

  My father looked at me with eyes I ain’t never seen. Eyes that weren’t cool. Or slick. Or lovey-dovey like he be looking at my mom. Eyes that said what Ghost’s eyes said when he was reading the letter from his dad, or what Patty’s eyes said when she told us about that crazy car accident her auntie and little sister were in, or like Sunny’s eyes whenever he talked about his mother passing away.

  “Scared to talk to him?” he bawked, the same way I did when Coach asked if I was scared to jump the hurdles. “Yes.” Straight up. “And . . . and . . . and . . . em-embarrassed.” He stuttered. Struggled to get it out. Cleared his throat. Looked at me. I pushed a knot as big as a grapefruit down my throat. As sour, too. And even though I understood where he was coming from, and I felt for him, I put the medal in his hand and got out the car. And before I closed the door, I leaned down and said, “You can fix it.”

  He nodded.

  He sat there for a while. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, and honestly I ain’t really care. Wasn’t none of my business. I had to focus. I had practice. Hurdles to jump. A team to co-captain.

  But there wasn’t much co-captaining to do because it was Thursday, which meant it was Long Run Thursday, which meant everyone was going to leave the track and go on a run through the neighborhood. I have to admit, it’s the worst day of practice for all of us except for the distance runners. Sunny used to run it like it was a warm-up lap—light and easy but way faster than everybody else. Now that he ain’t running no more, Lynn always comes in first. And I guess since Chris is back, he’ll be right behind her. Me and Ghost came last, usually, but that’s okay because we don’t run long races. It’s stamina work. Coach just wants us to always have anot
her breath. To always have enough leg. To be conditioned to win. Usually Coach hops in his cab and basically chases us through the city, driving just slow enough to see us all, but fast enough to make us feel like he’s gonna clip our heels if we start slacking. He would even hit the horn to scare us. But because Coach knew I needed his help with the hurdles, he let the cab stay parked.

  “There will be no Motivation Mobile today, which means you all will have to motivate yourselves,” Coach preached to the team. “I know y’all can do that, because I know y’all want to win. Am I right?”

  Everybody nodded.

  “Am I right?!”

  Everybody yeah-yelled.

  After stretching, Whit, the leader of the Long Run, took off, everybody falling in line behind her as they all left the track, ran across the field, through the parking lot—past my mom’s car, with my dad in it—out of sight.

  I didn’t go.

  Neither did Sunny. He just did what he always did, spun around and flung his discus, letting out strange shrieks. Weird sounds that no human should be able to make. And as Coach set up the hurdles, I took my contacts out. I put them in their case—a pod for each lens—put them back in my bag, and jogged back onto the track.

  That’s when I heard the car door slam. I looked across the field and there my dad was, walking toward us.

  “Who’s that?” Coach asked, putting a hand up to his brow to block the sun.

  “My dad.” I gulped air, thought about what was going to happen. Would Coach yell at him? Would they fight? I couldn’t imagine Coach fighting nobody. I couldn’t imagine my dad fighting nobody either, but if I had to pick between the two, the Goose is probably taking the turtle. So I hoped that didn’t happen. I kept looking, and the closer he got, the more he disappeared. It was like he was becoming walking water.

  “Otis,” my father called out.

  “Goose?” Coach responded. “What’s going on?” I couldn’t really see, but I knew Coach approached my dad, because I could hear his feet and his voice move toward the fence. And as they got closer to each other, I started walking backward, away from them.